


Phantastic Phil’s Ophice Phor Phreaks

by faeleverte



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Mission Fic, Misunderstandings, Pre-Slash, UST, intentional misspellings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1269235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Couson finally stopped laughing, but he kept looking at Clint with a smile, a <i>real</i> smile, full of teeth.</p><p>Clint was willing to admit that he probably got a little carried away after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantastic Phil’s Ophice Phor Phreaks

**Author's Note:**

> This DOES work as a standalone!
> 
> This takes place a few months before [Driver’s Seat](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1180468), and is likely the what set those events in motion. 
> 
> The [Two-Man ‘Verse](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/TwoManVerse) is a collection of background stories related to the ongoing series, [ Two-Man Rule](http://archiveofourown.org/series/61710).

Coulson was hanging against the harness of his seat in the helicopter, limp in sleep, maybe unconsciousness, possibly-but-unlikely deadness; Clint couldn’t tell from this angle, and he wasn’t about to reach out and kick the guy in the ankle to check. Coulson deserved his rest. Or his blackout. Whichever. 

After Blake had gotten the entire team captured with a generous application of bad intel, Coulson’d gone bulling through the front door of the office complex where they were being held. He had a gun in each hand, a chip on his shoulder, and a determination to collect his men and women, no matter what. He’d done it, too, ending with nothing more than some skinned knuckles where he’d run out of ammunition, and a graze from a bullet on his left temple. 

It was that graze which was currently giving Barton problems: he wanted to kiss it better.

Clint had noticed Coulson early in his time at SHIELD, not so far ahead of him as to be out of reach, but so far out of his league as to be absolutely untouchable. And then they had begun working together, slowly establishing a professional rapport through the challenges of missions and hours of downtime spent hunting for the perfect plate of pancakes and cup of coffee. Somehow, though, Clint had never quite gotten past the little drop in his stomach when Coulson turned that look, that almost-smile that crinkled his eyes and softened that crease between his eyebrows, full-force on him. 

Now, face slack from exhaustion, and with the traces of dried blood collecting in the lines at the corners of his eye, at the early lines around his mouth, Coulson looked vulnerable for the first time since they had been assigned to the same op, two years before. Clint wanted to touch, to pull Coulson’s sleeping form into his arms and never let go. However, as unsolicited snuggling of fellow agents was frowned upon, Clint found himself slightly at a loss for a way to offer comfort.

He pondered for the rest of the flight, trying to keep from staring at Coulson in a way the rest of the agents on the bird would notice, while still keeping a close eye from his peripheral vision. He was the first one to offer a smile and a nod of thanks as Coulson finally opened his eyes ten minutes out from base.

“You really wanna thank me, Barton,” Coulson began with a twitch to the corner of his lips that warmed Clint clear through, easing some of the tension that had built as Coulson had continued to sleep. “Just do your paperwork before you hit your bunk tonight. I’d really like to get it entered tonight, so I can sleep in tomorrow.”

Clint smiled back. “Can do, boss.”

***

When they were finally back on base, Clint had followed Coulson to his office and tucked himself into a creaky chair with a loose arm. He had braced the clipboard with the paperwork Coulson handed him against the stable arm and started flipping through, trying to figure out where to start. An hour of near-silence, broken only by the scratch of his pen and the click of Coulson’s computer keyboard, and Clint’s cramped scrawl covered nearly every page. He thumbed back to the first form to check it over one last time.

The printer had obviously not been working well, and part of the header was missing, so the title read “orm 179B-3564 Taken Hostage and Recovered.” Clint snickered to himself as he carefully filled in the space for the first letter with a “Ph.”

“Here ya go,” he said, sliding it across the scarred surface of the government issue desk. “Ph-ffform is all Ph-fffilled out, Phil.”

Coulson raised an eyebrow at Clint’s use of his first name, then glanced at the paper in his hand. 

It was surely a sign of his exhaustion that his response was to throw back his head and let out a rich, full laugh. He finally stopped laughing, but he kept looking at Clint with a smile, a _real_ smile, full of teeth. Clint wanted to taste it.

***

Years later, Clint would laughingly admit to Phil that in that moment he became obsessed: with getting that laugh, with seeing those cool grey eyes focused entirely on him, with easing some of the tension that Phil carried around his mouth and in the lines between his brows, with getting to indulge in the casual intimacy that nearly using Phil’s name let Clint pretend they were more than coworkers. Phil would retort that, at the time, he thought Clint had become obsessed with driving him to drink. 

***

At first it was small: a single word showing up about every third field report with the “f” replaced by a “ph.” Sometimes Clint would let whole weeks go by without mentioning Coulson’s given name. When Clint determined that Coulson had all but forgotten (phorgotten. Heh) about the game, he would hand in a report that stated something like “Was engaged in a Phirephight with phoreign combatants using sofisticated weaponry. Phabulous Phil phinished them all, saving our asses and the day.” He never got that laugh again, but the eyeroll and mildly annoyed huff of breath were enough to keep him going. Anything that broke through the perfect calm, anything that got a flash of the humor, the sparkle underneath the suit. Clint was willing to work for it. And the annoyed huff didn’t actually sound angry, but it was getting smaller as time passed.

Clint decided to up his game.

***

“And Barton will choose his nest once we are on the ground.” Coulson began drawing the briefing to a close. “No one goes in until he is settled. No one moves without his eyes. Does anyone have any questions?”

Clint slouched lower in his chair, lifting one finger for Coulson’s attention. 

“Sir,” he drawled. “About the ph-ffortiph-ffications that the ph-ffaction has created - can a ph-fforce like this…”

“Barton,” Coulson said sharply. “I personally planned this mission. It will work. You worry about your nest.”

“Ph-ffucking-A, Ph… Sir,” Barton replied. 

Coulson was scowling, but there was a slight tightness to the left corner of his lips, and Clint warmed to his toes, recognizing the look as Coulson fighting not to laugh in front of the team.

Phucking-A, indeed.

***

Clint was willing to admit that he probably got a little carried away after that. He spent so long drawing out the effs in words that a rumor got started among the junior agents that he had a strange stutter. He cooled it around other people (for the most part) after that, but he carefully and pointedly replaced every single f with the ph on documents that went to Coulson. 

Coulson quit smiling, even with his eyes.

Determined not to lose this round, Clint started shoving notes under Coulson’s office door while it was unoccupied:

_Phil, still on phor beer and cards on Phriday with Sitwell, May, and Andrea-phrom-Phinance? B_

or

_Still not pheeling sushi phor the weekend. In the mood phor something phried. Burgers okay? B_

Coulson started avoiding Clint.

Clint retaliated by getting more outrageous in his notes.

_Phound a place with phantastic phried phish. Phree phor phood Phriday? Your Phriend, B_

and

_Phixed a phlat on a Phord phor a phemale phriend phound on the phreeway. Her pherocious phury oph a pheline phixed it’s phangs in my phemur. Phreakishly phixated on eating pholks, that pheline. Phond wishes, B_

***

The light had barely been out for two minutes in Clint’s quarters when the door lock beeped and the door itself was flung open to crash against the back wall. The overhead was flipped on, and Clint found himself perched on the foot of his bed with a revolver leveled at Coulson’s head.

“Put that away, Barton.” Coulson watched, gaze angry and face impassive as Clint scrambled to slide the gun back under his pillow. 

“Can I help you, sir?” Clint sank down, sitting on the side of his bed, trying to look innocent. It wasn’t as if Coulson had no idea what would happen if he stormed into Clint’s room with no warning in the middle of the night. They’d shared enough hotel rooms that had been invaded, surely Coulson had gotten a good look at Clint’s reflexes a time or two. Still, Clint was feeling at least a bit guilty for drawing on his handler.

“This has to stop.” Coulson waved a handful of papers that all looked very famil… ohhh, the notes. “Director Fury found these most amusing. So entertaining, in fact, that I found _this_ taped over the nameplate on my office door.”

Clint took the proffered slip of paper with a hand that was not shaking, but the only reason for that was that Clint’s hands never shook.

_“Phantastic Phil’s Ophice for Phreaks and Phetishists”_

Clint bit down a snicker. How disappointing to not be the phirst one to come up with phetishists. 

“Come on, sir!” Clint was struggling to keep the laughter out of his voice or his eyes. He held the paper out and grinned. “I didn’t do that. You _know_ I wouldn’t do that!”

Coulson managed to silence him with a single raised eyebrow.

“I am aware that you did not place that sign.” Coulson plucked it out of his fingers and crumpled it into a ball. “That is, in fact, Fury’s handwriting. But I cannot have my boss _pranking_ me, and I cannot have my subordinates finding something like _that_ on my door. This… obscene joke stops now, Barton. One more incident, and I will report you for insubordination, and I will have you put on filing and copier duty for the next three months. Do you understand?”

“Shit, Coulson!” Clint stood abruptly and clenched his fists at his sides. “It was a damn joke. Get a sense of humor!”

“I asked if you understood your orders and the consequences for failing to follow through, Agent Barton,” Coulson said, his face blanked of all expression except for the angry flex in his jaw. “Knock it off, or your ass will be glued to a damned chair for three months, and then sent to a posting without an archery range for the foreseeable future. _Do you understand?_ ”

“Perfectly, _Agent Coulson_ ,” Clint replied. “Turn the light off on your way out, _sir._ ”

 

***  
A few weeks passed where Clint didn’t see much of Coulson. They were professionally courteous to each other when they passed in the halls, but there was none of the casual camaraderie that they had built over their couple years of working together, and Clint sorely missed it. He went through the motions -- cards and beers and bullshitting -- with other agents, but none of them became close enough to let his guard down around. None of them were relaxed enough for him to shoot paperclips at their coffee mugs or go to sleep with them in the room.

Finally, a call came through that needed both Clint and Coulson’s specialties, so, with two other agents that Clint considered as close to friends as he had, they headed for Nairobi, Kenya with minimal tech, one sniper rifle, the surname of an informant, and rumors of a new threat to global prosperity.

***

Clint was sitting in his nest, rifle trained on the space next to Coulson’s shoulder, entirely focused on the mission. The meet had been set up through, at best, third-hand sources, and Clint had a very nasty feeling tiptoeing up and down his spine. He didn’t like it when Coulson had to be so exposed while there were baddies around, and he was very exposed indeed, leaning against a pole with a British newspaper held in front of him. The street was too narrow, the buildings too high, and Clint knew his angle sucked. 

“Sir,” he muttered into his comm, “I still advise against this in the strongest possible terms. I can’t… I can’t promise I can cover you well enough from here. Coulson...” 

He trailed off helplessly. If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do. We’re not as close as we were just a couple of months ago, and I know that’s my fault, and I want time to say I’m sorry. There aren’t many people in my life I just can’t go without, and you made the shortlist. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, with the exception of that one girl, back in my merc days, and even she eventually abandoned me. And what does that say, that a few naps on your office couch and a couple hands of cards or dinners out and you’re closer to me than anyone else I know.

So many things he couldn’t say on comms. So many things he didn’t know the words for face-to-face, either.

“It’s fine, Barton,” Coulson shrugged. “Just a quick exchange of cash for information. We’ll be home in time for tomorrow night’s dinner.”

Clint thought he detected a softening in Coulson’s shoulders, in his voice. He sucked up his courage and decided to risk it.

“Burgers when we get there?” Clint kept his tone as casual as he could manage. “With cards after at Andrea’s?” 

“I don’t know, Barton,” Coulson’s shoulders tensed up again. Clint took a long, slow breath, trying to keep his sigh quiet. “We’ll discuss it… wait…. Ah. My contact, I believe.”

Clint backed his face from the scope, without moving the rifle so much as a hairsbreadth. A small, nervous-looking man in a wrinkled grey suit was creeping down the sidewalk, every movement screaming “Look at me! I’m on a secret mission!”

“Yes, real subtle there, dude.” Clint snorted with professional disdain; no one was looking twice at Coulson and his newspaper. 

A flash of silver caught his attention from the other direction, and a large van pulled up in front of Phil, side door open before it stopped, four large men jumping out. Clint swore and swung his attention back to the scope as the men grabbed Coulson, immobilized his arms, and dragged him into the back. Clint fired once, hitting one of the goons in the shoulder, and then the van was pulling away, the man in the wrinkled suit leaping aboard as it rolled past.

“SHIT SHIT SHIT!” Clint shouted into the comm, scooping up his gear and running through the hotel room where he had been set up. “They have Coulson. Repeat: agent taken! Suspects in large, silver van, no identifying information can be seen from this angle.”

“On it,” came the reply. Agent Sitwell, who had been providing tactical backup and monitoring comms from a block away, sounded tight and angry in Clint’s ear. “Picking you up in the alley. Tracker activated.”

Clint kicked open the door across the hall, raced past a very startled American reporter occupying the room, and dragged himself out the far window, onto the balcony. A black SUV stopped directly under him, sunroof open. Swinging himself over the railing, Clint dropped onto the top of the roof and slid inside.

“We’re on him, Barton,” Sitwell told him from the passenger seat. The sun flashed off the lenses of his glasses as he glanced over his shoulder. “We’ll get him back.”

After that, there was a lot of holding on tightly as the driver, Agent May, swung the car around corners, occasionally thumping over the curb to avoid traffic. She had the window down and was exchanging insults with pedestrians who seemed completely unsurprised by the wild driving. Jasper was reading directions off of some large piece of beeping equipment that he clutched with one hand, his other being fully occupied with clinging to the armrest on the door. Clint closed his eyes and focused on his breathing to get the shaking in his hands to quit. More shouting from Sitwell, more swerving from May, and then all the movement stopped. They were parked in front of a warehouse, windows broken out, doors caved in, clearly abandoned.

“Where the hell are we?” Clint asked.

“How the hell should I know,” May growled back. “This is my first trip to Nairobi.”

“Computer says Coulson’s in there,” Sitwell said, drawing his gun from his shoulder holster and opening his door. “Let’s go get ‘em.”

***

It turned out that Coulson was not inside the warehouse, but Coulson’s radio _was_. So were rather a lot of explosives that started going off shortly after the trio entered the building.

“Well that was unpleasant,” Sitwell said, sliding his cracked glasses off of his nose to rub his hands from the top of his soot-covered scalp down to his chin. “First time I’ve ever been blown up.”

“WHAT?” May shouted. “I still can’t hear you.”

Clint curled into a ball on the back seat, closing his eyes against the sudden prickle of tears. He was going to blame it on stress. Maybe hormones. Yeah. He was just feeling hormonal.

Coulson would laugh at the joke.

“I’ve got everyone back at HQ on this,” Sitwell said, turning to look at Clint. “They’ll get us some info soon, and we’ll get him back. And Coulson’s tough. He’ll be okay.”

Clint nodded, glad that his teammates were his friends… and Coulson’s.

***

“Are we sure we’re right this time?” May raised binoculars to her face as the three of them settled behind a row of shrubs outside an innocuous-looking white building seventeen hours after Coulson had been grabbed.

“All intel says that this was an independent cell,” Sitwell said. “And this lab is their center of operations. They don’t have the financial means to maintain multiple properties.”

“And the warehouse from yesterday?” Clint asked, studying what he could guess of the layout from the windows and vents on the roof and comparing it to the blueprint he had memorized earlier.

“Not theirs.” Sitwell settled onto his haunches and brushed his hands across the lapels of his dusty suit. “Apparently it belongs to Stark Enterprises, but someone forgot about it.”

“Imagine having so much money you forget what you own,” May murmured, shaking her head.

“My imagination isn’t that good.” Clint traced exit paths and security weaknesses in his mind until he was fairly certain he had determined the most logical location for a prisoner to be held and immediately started memorizing the path from the front doors to the small room near the back.

“Wouldn’t mind trying the reality of it for a bit,” Sitwell noted, lifting his night-vision binoculars to scan the perimeter. “Just to see if it’s as bad as it seems, of course.”

“For science?” May raised an eyebrow.

Clint wished they’d just shut up: Coulson might be in there, injured. Or worse.

***

There had been two explosions on the way into the building, but Clint knew May had only set off one of them. He figured that the Evil Bad Guys of Evil were trying to bring the place down on them. Again. Maybe they were just hoping to destroy evidence. Either way, there was now an uncomfortable amount of fire licking through the walls and crackling threateningly from nearby.

“I can’t see a goddamned thing in this shithole!” Sitwell’s voice was ragged from the smoke along the commline. “Barton! May! Do either of you have a fucking clue what’s going on?”

“Nearly there,” Clint panted back. The lower half of his face was swaddled in rags that had been the shirt of the guard who had happened upon him near the outside door. He stayed low, a pistol in each hand, eyes alert for the slightest sign of movement, but, as the smoke swirled around him, everything was movement. He considered looking for stillness instead.

“Mainframe uploaded to SHIELD servers,” May crackled in his ear. “Heading to the rendezvous point.”

“Meet you out there,” Sitwell sounded like he could barely breathe. “I’m useless in here. Barton, check that room and then get the hell out.”

“Not leaving without making damn sure he’s not in here,” Clint vowed quietly. No one answered, and he knew they couldn’t hear him over the fire. Good thing, probably.

Clint eased around the last corner before the door that was his goal and saw four men clustered in the hall. All were armed.

“Hey!” Clint barked, stepping into the center of the doorway. “Waiting for me?”

The muzzles of four guns swung toward him, and Clint fired four times, hitting each man in the hand or shoulder.

“Where’s my boss?” he demanded. 

***

Clint had been right about the prisoner-holding location. He’d call it a cell, but, really, it looked like an unfinished bathroom, marble tiled floor, creamy paint on the walls, a couple of exposed, capped pipes, and oh, thank God! Finally found Coulson!

Coulson was lying on the floor just inside the door, arms and legs flung out at odd angles, looking like a child’s doll, dropped on the tile after playtime. After releasing the injured guards to find their own way out of the building and into the arms of the waiting local constabulary, Clint ducked into the room. He stood over Coulson’s limp body, eyeing the bloody gash on Coulson’s scalp, and the bruise on his cheekbone.

“Shit, Sir,” Clint said, dropping to his knees by Coulson’s side. He ran his fingertips along the knot of Coulson’s tie, loosening in enough to unfasten the button behind and slid his fingers in, checking for a pulse. The shock of relief he felt upon feeling it, steady and strong against his fingertips, rattled through him. Although that might have been the next explosion from somewhere in the building.

“Place is rigged to blow, Coulson,” Clint said, gathering Coulson’s limbs in close and rocking onto his heels as he heaved Coulson onto his shoulder. “Time to go.”

As he stalked through the halls, ducking into semi-sheltered corners to grab an easier breath when he could (seriously how much _muscle_ did Coulson have to be hiding under the careful tailoring, to weigh this much?), Clint kept up a quiet murmur to the limp form draped over his back. He mentally replaced all Fs with Ph-es as he went.

“This little phield trip has turned into quite the phracas, Coulson,” he said. “Phire and phear and pharting phield agents in phancy phushia Phords. Okay, so it was black, and I don’t think it was a Ford. But Sitwell with _any_ food is almost as bad as you with cucumbers.” He leaned his shoulder against the wall during another breather. “I’m sorry I was such an ass about the whole thing, sir. But you’ve gotta be okay, okay? You’re… about the only _close_ friend I have at SHIELD, and I can’t afford to lose you. Besides, I… kinda like looking at you. So you have to pull through this, and you’ve gotta take me back as _your_ sniper. And you gotta live long enough to yell at me and phorgive me.”

Clint grinned wolfishly, seeing the flash of police lights through the doors ahead of him.

“What? You owe me that one, after I ran into an exploding building to get you out.” Clint patted his hand against Coulson’s lower back where it rested beside his ear. 

“Barton?” called a weak voice from somewhere below and behind. “Will you put me down already?”

“Few more steps, sir. I see Sitwell’s Shiny Scalp waiting on us just ahead.”

“Oh, hell no, you’re not carrying me out ass-first in front of him!” Coulson kicked and wiggled a bit, but Clint just clutched his legs more tightly and started running as he cleared the door. 

They were nearly to the perimeter when another, much larger, explosion ripped through the building, and the resulting concussion knocked them both to the ground. After several moments of falling, fiery debris, Coulson reached up to pat Clint’s shoulder where it rested on his stomach.

“Barton?” Phil’s voice was gentle.

“Yessir?”

“I fucking hate you.”

“No ya don’t.” Clint’s ears were ringing, but his cheek was warm against the side of Coulson’s no-longer-spotless jacket. Everything on Clint’s body ached. Other than his right cheek, right shoulder, and right leg that was lying across both of Coulson’s. All those parts were pretty happy with their lives. “I saved your life. If I’d stopped to drop you, we’d have been too close to the fireball.”

Coulson’s chest panted under Clint’s, and Clint rolled his head to watch Phil consider. 

“Okay,” Phil conceded. “ _Maybe_ I don’t. Still. Mind getting off me now?”

“Soon as I can move, sir.”

They both lay on the ground, panting and trembling, until Clint finally rolled, stretching out his back on the ground. Coulson’s hand stroked Clint’s sweat-soaked hair, and Clint fought the urge to curl toward the caress. 

“Barton?” Phil’s voice was brittle, jagged from smoke and _maybe_ emotion.

“Yeah, Coulson?” Clint’s own throat was far too dry.

“Thanks for saving my ass.”

“Not a problem, Boss.” He didn’t add: “Ass worth saving. Both you and your backside.”

***

Cleanup took less time than Sitwell had predicted due to the astonishing competence of local authorities. Well, one man, Joseph Something-Clint-Couldn’t-Pronounce (that Coulson and Jasper got the accent perfect on, first try, of course). So it was only two hours more until the smoke-stained, exhausted team crawled aboard a cargo plane heading for the nearest US military base, where SHIELD would pick them up and fly them home.

Clint flopped beside Coulson, head thumping against the wall of the plane as his legs splayed bonelessly in front of him. His right knee came to rest against Coulson’s left thigh, and Clint tried to ignore the warmth that spread from black suit to tacsuit. He tried to bump their shoulders, but exhaustion made the gesture more of a push and hold.

“That…” Coulson’s head was leaning back, eyes closed, face dirty and haggard. “That was absolutely…”

“Yeah.” Clint took the opportunity to stare at Coulson’s profile, at the line of his neck, the sharp edge of his amazing jaw, the delicacy of his temple and high forehead. He momentarily forgot what he was agreeing with.

“That was absolutely…” Coulson opened his eyes and turned to meet Clint’s stare. “Absolutely Phffucked up.”

Clint blinked. He blinked again, seeing the tiniest hint of a smile move across Coulson’s mouth like a shadow. He felt a smile crawl onto his own face, melting away his resting-scowl. And then a laugh bubbled up from nowhere, and he got to witness a miracle. That smile, that genuine, show-the-teeth grin was back on Coulson’s face. Clint was hit by the same wave of longing to taste, and, before he knew what he was doing, he was leaning, half the distance to Coulson’s eye-crinkled joy already swallowed, and Phil’s breath close enough to brush Clint’s lips.

No. Not here. Too many others around, too many things he still didn’t know.

Clint let his head drop back against the wall of the plane. He hoped, really deeply _hoped_ that his intentions of kissing hadn’t been broadcast for the rest of their team. Sitwell was lying flat on his back and snoring, glasses askew on his nose, and May was looking very much not-in-their-direction.

“You’re…” He trailed off while he hunted for the correct word. “You’re pretty phantastic, Coulson.”

Coulson rocked enough to let their shoulders bump and then stayed, leaning into Clint’s side, chuckling. 

“Burgers when we get home?” Coulson asked.

“I’m thinking… Phried Phish,” Clint answered. Coulson nodded solemnly before letting his head drop back and closing his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Looked like Clint’d gotten back his Phavorite Phriend.

**Author's Note:**

> Next in the main series, “Remote Access” in late March. 
> 
> Coming soon in the 'Verse, “Down for the Count,” featuring the dangers of _actual_ fluff.
> 
> As always, huge thanks to beta [Selana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selana/pseuds/Selana), whose detail-oriented eyes keep me from looking like a complete moron. I owe her much for her close watch on continuity, repetition, and general “Fae, what _are_ you talking about?” Your humor and help make writing possible. Go take a peek in her life [on tumblr](http://selana1505.tumblr.com)
> 
> And another thank you to my collaborator and partner in this crime, [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar) for helping with the idea, the plotting, and the laughing hysterically (both with and at me) along the way. This series/collection will be the making or the breaking of us. [Her tumblr](http://kat-har.tumblr.com) is a great way to keep up with her writing shenanigans
> 
> As ever, I want to know what YOU, wonderful reader, think! Leave me comments, [come see me](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, too. Here you’ll find the ravings of a mad woman (that’s me), as well as the adventures of Wee!Coulson and Plastic!Phil. 
> 
> And thanks for reading. XX


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